by Gabbar Singh
Thorns had pierced her rump and paunch. One hind leg and one foreleg were tangled. If it were an inanimate object, he could have shaken the bushes violently to free it. But doing that now could only hurt her fur- ther.
He traced the thorn that he figured had penetrated the deepest and pulled it gently. He had to be gentle because he couldn’t grip the bush; it would prick his hands too. The thorn barely moved. He clenched the bush and pulled. It moved up a little but not enough. He held the bush harder. This time the thorns pierced his hand but he extracted it in a single jerk. The sheep winced. He felt a drop of a liquid trickling down his palm that he knew wasn’t sweat because sweat didn’t sting at its source. He patted her with his other palm.
“Only a few more, Surili. And then it will be over. We’ll stitch you up alright.” Thorn by thorn – there were nine of them (one for each sheep that must be staring at Surili, saved from her fate, thought Nand Lal) – he set her free from the spiky clutches of nature. He stroked her with his hand and tugged at her to ensure that no thorn was left. After an hour-long struggle he rescued her. He wrapped his arms around her neck, burying his face into her. A mixture of his sweat and blood further soiled her blood-stained fleece, making indistinguishable the points at which she had been pierced.
Nand Lal got up. He took a deep breath and bowed to the Gods above. He carried Surili with his unhurt hand and signalled for the flock to fol- low, by rapping the stick with theother, leaving a trail of crimson drops in his footsteps on the dry soil. Anyone could have connected the dots.
***
Nand Lal’s mother’s hand shot back to lift her ghoonghatwhen she saw the blood dripping at her son’s feet.
“Nandu! What happened?” She ran towards him, took the sheep from his hands, and gasped. She rushed them both outside the hut to the veranda where a matkawas kept in a corner. She washed the wounds – first her son’s and then the sheep’s
– with glassfuls of water.
“Where did this happen?”
“At the foothills of the Shiva temple.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help? It’s less than five minutes from here. Why do you have to do these things by yourself, Nandu?” his mother cried as she bandaged the wounds.
“Isn’t it obvious, Kamla?” a man with a bushy white moustache that coiled around his cheeks and wearing a pagari said as he entered. “Babaji, he always listens to you. Why don’t you scold him?” “Nandu, wouldn’t you get some milk for your old man? Go, get some for all of us.” Nand Lal and his grandfather grinned at each other as he left, this time requiring no stick. He knew his house and its surroundings like the sound of his sheep.
“ Babaji, why do you do that? I’m worried that someday he’ll get hurt badly. I have lost count of the number of times he has gotten himself injured because of his unnecessary heroics.”
“And what about the injuries you do not see?” “What do you mean?”
“He is seventeen now. You can’t walk him around holding his hand for - ever. He is growing into a man. You know how much he hates people pitying him. The boy wishes to earn respect by being self-dependent. Let him be.”
“How can I? It pains my heart to see this. Wasn’t it enough for God to make him blind at birth? Why does he”—her voice broke off as she choked on her words—“have to keep getting hurt?”
“I am telling you Kamla, the boy is more a man than all his peers put together. Don’t kill his spirit. He’ll be alright.” The sound of Nand Lal’s footsteps grew louder. His mother resigned to her father-in-law’s words, her head bobbing up and down. She swal- lowed hard. There wasn’t enough water in the house to soothe every- body’s pain.
*** The heat from the burning yellow sun breaks us into a fit of sweat – profuse as tears induced while chopping an onion. Dominated by our furious ruler, our heads remain hung, much like our cattle and sheep that graze the arid, faint green grass. As morning seethes into noon and noon melts into afternoon, our ruler, only slightly satisfied with the labour of his minions, mellows into shades of orange and red. He watches over for a few more hours. Tired of the vigil, he decides to call it a day and leaves behind a stream of shades that turn from pink to blue and then to black; as if the sky were an army that had stood in steadfast attention all day and was just beginning to slack, now that the commander had signalled for it to be at ease. Taking a cue from the hue, we laze around and walk back home in the dark. That’s when I am most at peace.
“Nand Lal, did you write this yourself?” “Yes Roshan Sir, I did,” the boy replied. “I can’t believe this. How can you, how can a–” “How can a blind boy write about colours?” “I am sorry Nand Lal.”
“Please sir, don’t be. It’s alright. I have no use for the concept of colours. But people, who can see, do. Like any blind person, I listen carefully. That is how I have learnt what each colour represents and feels like. I have tasted red-hot chillies so the colour evokes the same sharp sensation in my mind as it does in anybody else’s. I have a vague idea about the sooth- ing feeling of looking at greenery and a clear blue morning sky. I know what it means to be in the pink of health...”
Roshan didn’t know how to react.
“But black is my favourite colour,” Nand Lal added.
“And why is that?”
“Black is the colour of equality.”
The tutor lifted his head from the papers on his desk and looked long at the pupil as if examining the profound wisdom of ages seeped in his mind. He lacked sight but not vision.
Most of the students at the night school were ‘working children’ like Nand Lal was. Day-time chores left them with no time to study. But thanks to the efforts of Barefoot College, academics were taken seriously in the village of Tilonia. The children were taught most of what mattered in classes taken in government schools at night. Basic mathematics, sci- ence, civics and the English language were the most important subjects. Awareness of environmental, socio-economic and political issues and practical knowledge was focussed upon.
Roshan Raghuvanshi, Nand Lal’s favourite teacher, was a traveller-writ- er-photographer who had been teaching them English for the last six months. Every class, since the day he had written his colourful write-up was followed by an hour-long chat between him and his favourite stu- dent.
When Roshan returned from the annual Jaipur Literature Festival, Nand Lal insisted on being regaled with even the most mundane details that no tourist would ever pay much attention to. He had a tendency to turn travelogues into audio tours. The little details made all the difference, he always said. So besides the monuments of the city and the events of the festival, Roshan took him over to every nook and corner, road, school, museum, restaurant, hospital, stadium, college he had come across.
“Sawai Man Singh, you say. Why are so many things named after him?” “Because he was a great Maharaja of Jaipur. That’s why his name bears the title Sawai.”
“But all it means is one and a quarter.” “No, it means so much more. In the context of the title of honour, it means one and a quarter of an average man in worth. In other words, an extraordinary man.”
*** What am I worth? How much is a blind shepherd worth, huh? A quarter more – surely not. A quarter less – more likely. Why do I need others’ help to get by? Why can’t I be allowed to do things on my own like everybody else? Why can’t I ever be the one who helps others? Of course, even if I could see, I couldn’t be the best at everything. But is there nothing that I can do better than the others? Is there no such thing in which I am Sawai?
Nand Lal couldn’t stop brooding over the word as he walked the dark path back to his kuchcha house. He punched his bandaged hand in the air and kicked the stones in his path, groaning as his hand stung.
***
“Roshan Sir, It’s driving me mad!”
“Beg your pardon. What are you talking about?”
“I curse myself every time I need to touch the walls to find my way through a room, every time I have to grab hold of somebody’s
arm to cross the road. I can locate the origin of a sound in an instant. I can re- member people from the touch of their hand. But my ability to do these things mocks me by reminding me why I can do so. “
Three months had passed. Nand Lal had found himself grumbling whenever he introspected about his disability, which was all the time. His morale was floundering under the weight of the one word that had conquered his thoughts. He had to seek help.
“I am in the dark, Sir. I am in the dark. Arrghh!” He was a master of all the senses he possessed. Yet the one that he didn’t, scarred his psyche like the thorns had Surili’s flesh. He broke down. Tears trickled down the eyes that couldn’t see the smile on the face of the quiet listener.
Roshan knew what it must have taken Nand Lal to come up to him. He didn’t want to interrupt his catharsis. He walked around for a while and finally came closer to comfort his dear pupil.
“Cheer up Nand Lal. Listen, I have been invited to a conference in Hyderabad next week. Come with me. We’ll have a nice time.” “Will my mother allow?”
“I’ll talk to her. She will.”
She did. And eight days later Nand Lal set foot out of Tilonia for the first time in his life. *** “Come Nand Lal, let’s go up.” “Where are we headed?” “Some place you are about to fall in love with.” Roshan had heard of the place before but he was there for the first time.
He asked Nand Lal to wait outside for a while, and went up to the recep - tion to complete the formalities. Nand Lal wasn’t told where he was. But he got to feel it.
Goose flesh erupts on the skin caressed by the cool air. The piquant fragrance, the melody of the light English music in the background, the guiding touch of the walls, the woodwork and the shoulder before yours stir the sleepy senses that aid their dominant sibling in painting a picture in the dark. Pitch blackness engulfs you, rendering you insignificant in its tranquil singularity. Black – as my companion once remarked
– is the colour of peace and equality.
“Welcome to Dialogue in the Dark. Please form a queue and place your right hand on the shoulder of the person in front of you.” Delivered with a pleasant smile, these words greet you at the entrance of a restaurant called Taste of Darkness at Inorbit Mall, Madhapur, Hyderabad. The restaurant doesn’t have much on the menu and simply asks for your preference for Veg or Nonveg. Nothing special. Except that there is.
Memories of the day drifted across Roshan’s mind as he wrote about it. “Hello sir, I am Amulya,” the attendant spoke with cheerful fluency. “I am from Kerala. I work here in the evening and pursue my bachelor’s degree in psychology during daytime. Tell me something about yourselves.”
“Hello madam. I am Nand Lal from Rajasthan. I take care of sheep dur- ing the day and attend school at night.” Everyone chuckled. It was evident from his tone that he felt pleased, yet somewhat embarrassed, by the manner in which he was being addressed. Nobody had ever called him ‘Sir’ before. Nand Lal had never been to a restaurant.
“I am”—he started—“enjoying myself,” he added after a palpable pause. He decided not to mention that he was blind. She could see that anyway, couldn’t she?
“I’ll be back with your dinner.” Nand Lal and Roshan had always bonded over the latter’s travel experi - ences. He had seen so much of the world through his teacher’s eyes. But that day was different. That day, Roshan ventured into Nand Lal’s world.
Never have I been more awake, as I am now. Never before have I met a voice or estimated the dimensions of a room by the distance from where the music is playing. Never before have I traced the periphery of my plate or started eating without knowing what and how much is on the platter. Never before have I guessed the brand of a water bottle from its shape and the texture of its cap. Never have I drawn a picture on a black canvas with black ink. At this moment I am aware of all that I had been unaware of and unaware of that which I had been aware of. My senses are in an effortless trance of heightened observation.
Blink and you don’t miss it. Roshan rammed into a chair, lost his balance and tripped.
“Are you alright Sir?” said Nand Lal as he grabbed Roshan’s hand and pulled him up. “Yes. Thank you,” he said as he laughed. “Is everything fine?” “Did you notice something about our attendant?” “Yes. She spoke very well.” “Indeed. Anything else?” “Not in particular. Why?”
“Nand Lal, she cannot see.” He spoke the words slowly, allowing them to set in. “And by the way, neither can I. It is completely dark inside here.” Roshan held onto the hand that had helped him up moments ago. Nand Lal could swear he felt the tiniest of electric currents when he heard Roshan’s words. A pensive ‘wow’ escaped Nand Lal’s lips after an hourlong minute.
“I hope you had a nice experience,” said our attendant as she returned. “Yes we did, Amulya,” Roshan said, patting Nand Lal on the back. “Yes. Yes. We. Did.”
Content to have feasted on the sumptuous delight that is the Taste of Darkness, we thank our attendant. It only gets better when we are told that there is so much more, yet unexplored. We return the next morning.
I tap a cane on the walls of a winding tunnel leading indoors, helped by the touch of my companions and the voice of our guide. He is visually impaired as well. He leads our group of six through the Exhibition Tour of Dialogue in the Dark.
Nand Lal had taken up the role of the guide’s deputy. Everyone wanted to stay close to him. They tried to hold his arm in order to maintain their balance. While others struggled to hold their ground, he navigated with the deftness of a sailor caught in a storm. Roshan was sure that Nand Lal was smiling. Like the silent ocean.
My cane strikes a rugged structure, which my fingers determine to be the bark of a tree. We are in a park beside a small stream. We cross the shaking bridge over it that leads to a room graced by what seem like sculptures; each of us was assigned to identify a famous monument, bird or freedom fighter. We breathe in deep to solve the mysteries of spices. The ears and hands that have had a field day so far are stretched to trace the path of a cricket ball and strike it. A boat ride follows. It drops us off at a cafe where we buy chocolates, dealing with notes that we identify by their size and the shape of the figure embossed on them, as directed by our guide.
I have travelled the world. But seeing with my eyes closed I observe all that I haven’t in the visuals of the past. Irony awakens my rusted mind as I step out. This place was an eye-opener.
“Completely dark?” Nand Lal asked Roshan for the tenth time since din- ner the night before. “Pitch black, my boy. Not even a scintilla of light.”
“Thank you Sir. I am so happy. I want to work here.”
He needed no more help. They were in his territory. He walked over to the guide and returned five minutes later.
“I have a job interview tomorrow.”
Nand Lal’s cheeks were flushed red at that moment. He was going to help people see.
*** Nand Lal bagged the job. Just like the others, he would study during the day and work in the evenings.
The staff gathered around to congratulate him. Somebody asked him, “Hey, what’s your name?”
“His name,” Roshan spoke up before he could answer, “is Sawai.” ***
13. Someone with Character
Alka Gurha
The train rumbled on. The general compartment was teeming with peo - ple who jostled for space, demarcating territory by spreading their legs wide or keeping their bags on the wooden berths. Seventeen-year-old Ameena sat on the floor, near the toilet. Each time a passenger ventured towards it, she huddled to make way. Sitting on her haunches, it was im- possible to stretch her aching legs that were pulled close to her chest. Her eyes stared past the window as the scenery flitted by. Another girl, almost of Ameena’s age, appeared equally dazed in a crumpled cotton sari and a grimy blouse.
“ Tor naam ki?”
“Ameena Begum. And yours?”
“Reshma.”
Reshma was short, her skin darkened and blotched, probabl
y because of the sun, and her matted hair was tied in pink ribbons. Two mottled strands of hair streamed across her child-like face. As the train came to a screeching halt at Malda station, Ameena relaxed her legs. She saw two CRPF jawans boarding the train. One of them adjusted the rifle on his shoulder as he narrowed his gaze at Ameena. She looked away pulling her body in a defensive huddle, covering her face with the veil of her sari.
“Ticket?” the policeman nudged her with the butt of his rifle. “Rafique miyaan has it,” Ameena muttered in Bengali from beneath the folds of the worn out fabric. When the jawan continued to scrutinize her, she pointed towards the compartment. A middle-aged, pot-bellied Rafique emerged, exchanging suggestive grins with the khakhi-clad jawans before entering the compartment. Petulantly chewing tobacco through- out the day, he introduced himself to everyone as a ‘social worker’. Back home in Ameena’s village, people revered him as someone with a panacea for all their sufferings. Having dodged the border patrol in ways known only to him, Rafique was now accompanying the girls to Delhi with the promise of employment. Ameena had never seen a big city and yet, the thought of working in Delhi – its novelty and unpredictability – excited her. As the night wore on, Ameena hoped the morning would herald a new dawn.
*** Behind the neatly manicured lawns of Garden View Apartments in Gur - gaon,, home to the affluent and the aspiring, Ameena lived in one of the shanties with mud walls and tin sheds. The day began with hurling abuse and trading insults at the solitary hand-pump, where women lined up to store water in bright plastic pots. She was witness to fierce brawls in the cluster of huts, adjoining several others in filthy surroundings teeming with stray dogs.
Away from the chawl, Ameena steadily grew accustomed to the marvels of the city. Other than Rafique’s sly smile, what bothered her most was crossing the busy roads. With her heart racing faster than the cars, she would hold her sari, look around and begin to walk, but the speeding vehicles would scare her enough to return and start again.